Hook — The Impossible
I never believed in the impossible. Not until the morning the ceiling opened.
CHAPTER 1 — Awakening
I wake with a jolt, heart pounding, as if someone has whispered my name directly into my ear. The room is silent, but something is wrong. The air feels thick, almost electric, and a faint vibration hums through the mattress beneath me.
Then I see it.
A greenish-blue glow spreads across the walls, soft at first—then bright enough to erase every shadow. It doesn’t come from the window. It doesn’t come from anywhere I can understand. It simply is, filling the room like a rising tide of light.
I try to sit up, but my body refuses. My arms lie heavy at my sides. My legs feel pinned. Panic rises fast, sharp and cold. I try again, harder, but nothing moves except my eyes.
That’s when I notice the fog.
Fog rolls across the floor. Slow. Swirling. Glowing faintly. The smell hits—sharp, chemical. Ammonia. My eyes water. My throat tightens. I try to cough, but even that is impossible.
Shapes appear at the foot of my bed.
Small. Gray. Three… maybe four. Their outlines shimmer inside the fog, as if the air around them bends. I can’t breathe. I can’t scream. My mind races, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing, but nothing in my life has prepared me for this.
One of them steps closer.
Its head is too large. Its eyes are too dark. Its skin seems to absorb the light instead of reflecting it. The buzzing in my body intensifies, spreading from my spine to my fingertips, like an electric current running just beneath my skin.
I try to shout. I try to move. I try to do anything.
Nothing.
The creature lifts one hand. Its fingers are long and thin, almost delicate. The buzzing surges, and suddenly my body feels weightless. My back lifts from the mattress. My arms float upward. My legs rise as if pulled by invisible strings.
The ceiling is getting closer.
My breath catches in my throat as my face nears the plaster. I expect pain. I expect impact. Instead—it ripples like water touched by wind. My head passes through it. Then my chest. Then my legs.
Cold night air rushes around me, but I’m still rising, rising, rising.
Below me, the roof of my house becomes a shrinking shape. Above me, the sky is filled with colors I’ve never seen—bands of violet, green, and gold swirling like liquid light. The buzzing in my body merges with the hum of something enormous, something waiting.
My vision blurs. The colors fold inward. Warmth surrounds me.
And then— Darkness.
CHAPTER 2 — The Cylinder
Warmth presses against my face before I even open my eyes. Thick, heavy warmth—like sinking into a bath that’s just a little too hot. My lungs expand slowly, painfully, as if they’re learning how to breathe all over again.
But I’m not breathing air.
My eyes snap open.
I’m underwater. No—not water. The fluid around me is thicker, almost syrupy, glowing faintly green. It clings to my skin, my eyelashes, the inside of my throat. I inhale instinctively, and the liquid flows into my lungs without choking me. The sensation is so wrong, so unnatural, that panic detonates inside my chest.
I try to thrash, to kick, to push myself upward, but my limbs don’t respond. My arms float uselessly at my sides. My legs hang limp. Only my eyelids obey me, blinking rapidly as terror floods my mind.
I’m inside a cylinder.
A glass cylinder, tall and narrow, just wide enough for my body. The walls curve around me, smooth and cold. Soft lights pulse from above, casting shifting green shadows across the fluid. My heartbeat echoes inside my skull, loud and frantic.
I try to scream, but the liquid swallows the sound.
A memory slams into me—my bedroom, the fog, the ceiling dissolving, the colors in the sky. The creatures. The paralysis. The rising hum. The ammonia. The oily residue on my arms, shimmering green.
This is real. This is happening.
I force my fingers to move. Nothing. I try again, harder, willing every nerve in my body to obey. A faint twitch. Then another. My muscles feel like they’re waking from a deep, drugged sleep.
Come on. Move. Move.
A surge of strength hits me all at once. My arms jerk upward. My legs kick. The fluid churns around me. I push against the glass with everything I have, and the surface gives way—not like breaking, but like pushing through a membrane.
I burst out of the cylinder and collapse onto a cold, slick floor, gasping violently as air rushes into my lungs. The transition burns. My chest spasms. I cough, choking on the last traces of the fluid as it drains from my mouth and nose.
The room is dark.
Steam hangs in the air, thick and humid, carrying a sour, metallic smell that makes my stomach twist. My skin is coated in a slimy film that clings to me like a second layer. I wipe at my face, but it only smears.
Then I see them.
Rows of cylinders stretch into the darkness, each one glowing faintly. Some are empty. Some are lit from within. And inside those lit ones—my breath catches—are people. Men. Women. Floating motionless in the same green fluid I just escaped from.
My pulse hammers so hard it hurts.
I stagger backward, slipping on the wet floor, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how many of these cylinders there are. The room feels endless, like a warehouse built for nightmares.
A distant light flickers at the end of a long corridor.
Instinct takes over. I run.
My bare feet slap against the metal floor, splashing through puddles of the glowing fluid. The air is thick, almost too warm to inhale. The smell grows stronger as I move—chemical, rotten, unfamiliar.
I pass cylinder after cylinder, each one identical to the last. Some glow brighter, casting eerie reflections across the walls. Others sit dark and empty, like waiting coffins.
I don’t look inside them. I can’t.
The light ahead grows brighter. White. Clean. Human. I sprint toward it, screaming for help, for anyone, for anything that can pull me out of this nightmare.
I’m only a few steps away when two shapes appear in the light.
Tall. Thin. Moving with a smoothness that makes my skin crawl.
I skid to a stop, my breath catching in my throat. One of them reaches out, its hand long and pale, its fingers tapering like delicate tools.
“No—don’t—!”
The hand touches my shoulder.
Everything goes black.
CHAPTER 3 — The Overseer
I come back to consciousness slowly, as if rising through layers of thick fog. My eyelids feel glued shut. My limbs are heavy again—too heavy. A cold surface presses against my back. Metal. Smooth. Unforgiving.
I try to move. Nothing.
A spike of panic shoots through me, sharp and immediate. My breath quickens, but even that feels restricted, like something is pressing lightly against my chest. I force my eyes open.
The ceiling above me is curved, pale, and softly lit, like the inside of a shell. Shadows drift across it—shapes moving just out of sight. My pulse thunders in my ears.
Then a face leans over me.
Not human.
Its head is large and round, its skin a muted brownish tone, almost translucent under the lights. Two enormous orange eyes stare down at me, unblinking, their surface glossy like polished stone. The creature’s features are smooth, almost childlike, but the size of its eyes makes the proportions deeply wrong.
I try to scream, but only a strained breath escapes.
Something touches the side of my head. A cold instrument. Pressure near my right eye. Not pain—yet—but a sensation so alien that my stomach twists. I try to turn away, but my neck won’t respond.
Two smaller beings stand beside the taller one. Their movements are precise, synchronized, almost mechanical. They don’t look at me. They don’t react to my panic. They simply work.
The pressure near my eye increases. My vision blurs at the edges. A tremor runs through my body, but I can’t move. I can’t escape. I can’t even close my eyes.
The taller being leans closer. Its enormous face fills my vision. For a moment, I think it’s studying me. Then something shifts—an invisible presence brushing against my thoughts, like a whisper without sound.
A voice forms inside my mind.
No tengas miedo. Ya casi terminamos. Ten paciencia.
Perfect Spanish. Calm. Gentle. Completely at odds with the situation.
My breath catches. The voice isn’t mine. It isn’t imagined. It’s in me, threading through my fear, trying to soothe it. But the reassurance only makes the terror sharper. Why is it speaking to me? Why does it know my native language? Why does it sound almost… compassionate?26Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGpZVjj8sGx
The pressure at my eye sharpens. A flash of pain shoots through my skull. I gasp, or try to, but the sound dies in my throat. My fingers twitch uselessly against the table.
The taller being’s face moves even closer, until its eyes fill my entire world.
Ya casi. Solo un momento más.
The pain spikes again—bright, electric, overwhelming. My vision fractures into shards of light. My heartbeat stutters. A cold sensation slides along the bridge of my nose, something thin and unfamiliar.
I want to beg them to stop. I want to fight. I want to run. But my body is no longer mine.
The room tilts. The lights smear. The eyes fade.
And then— I’m gone.
CHAPTER 4 — The Morning After
Sunlight presses against my eyelids. I wake up on my own mattress, in my own room. For a moment, I think I’ve dreamed everything—the light, the fog, the cylinder, the table. My mind clings to that possibility, desperate for something normal.
But my body tells the truth.
Dry mouth. Heavy limbs. Skin raw, tender, as though something has been scraped away. The sheets are damp with sweat. When I sit up, a wave of exhaustion hits me so hard I almost fall back onto the pillow.
I don’t remember coming home. I don’t remember being brought back. I don’t remember anything at all.
The room looks exactly as it always does. No glow. No fog. No smell. The ceiling is solid, unbroken.
For a long time, I just sit there, breathing slowly, trying to convince myself that the night was nothing more than a nightmare.
But deep inside, something feels wrong. A heaviness. A pressure. A sense that something has been taken from me—or put inside me.
I try to shake it off. I drink water. I shower. I go through the motions of a normal morning. But the exhaustion clings to me like a shadow. Every sound feels too loud. Every light feels too bright. My thoughts drift in and out of focus.
I tell myself to forget it. And for a few weeks, I almost do.
Until the first flashback hits.
One moment I’m washing dishes, the next I’m back inside the cylinder, green fluid pressing against my skin, my lungs filling with something warm and thick. The memory slams into me so hard I drop the plate in my hands. It shatters on the floor, but I barely hear it.
I’m breathing liquid. I’m paralyzed. I’m drowning without drowning.
Then I’m back in my kitchen, gasping for air, gripping the counter to stay upright.
The flashbacks keep coming. Sometimes it’s the cylinder. Sometimes it’s the table. Sometimes it’s the tall being’s enormous orange eyes leaning close to mine, the voice in my head whispering ten paciencia as if that could make any of it bearable.
Each memory arrives sharper than the last, filling in details I didn’t know I had lost. The smell of the fog. The hum in my bones. The cold surface of the table. The synchronized movements of the smaller beings. The moment the taller one touched my thoughts.
And then—something new.
A room I don’t remember being in. A screen or a wall or something like it, filled with images that shift too quickly to follow. Scenes of the world—cities, oceans, storms, crowds of people. Then scenes from my own life. Childhood moments. Faces I haven’t thought about in years. Memories I didn’t know were still inside me.
It feels like they were showing me something. Teaching me something. Or studying me through the lens of my own experiences.
But the meaning slips away every time I try to grasp it.
The more the memories return, the less certain I am of what happened and what didn’t. I know I was taken. I know I was examined. I know I was submerged in that fluid. But the purpose—the reason—remains just out of reach, like a word I can almost remember but never quite say.
Some nights, I wake up convinced they’re coming back. Other nights, I lie awake hoping they won’t.
And every morning, the same quiet truth settles deeper into my bones:
I used to think alien abductions were impossible. Now I know better.
EPILOGUE — The Library of Memories
I live my life. I go to work. I speak to people. I smile. Nothing feels the same.
Sometimes, I feel it—a faint hum beneath my skin. A memory that isn’t mine. Watching. Waiting.
The flashbacks never fully stop. The cylinder. The table. The eyes. The voice—
No tengas miedo. Ya casi terminamos. Ten paciencia.
The meaning arrives instantly. Not a memory. A reminder.
Sometimes I look at the sky and feel something looking back. Not at me—through me. Every thought. Every memory. Every moment I’ve ever lived. Recorded. Stored. Somewhere far beyond my reach.
I used to be a man of cold logic and hard facts. To me, science fiction was a pleasant diversion—a collection of “what ifs” involving warp drives and distant galaxies. But the “abduction phenomenon”? I lumped that in with ghost stories and urban legends. Why would a civilization capable of crossing the interstellar void travel trillions of miles just to snatch a few humans from their beds? It seemed absurd. Illogical.
Then I woke up on a Tuesday morning in October, and logic deserted me.
I still live in my remote house. I still go to work. I know now that I am part of a library I never asked to join. I’m back on Earth, but I often look up at the stars and wonder:
Who is watching my memories tonight?
And somewhere, far beyond, I feel them waiting.
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and then Add to home screen.